


Gunpowder

by jvo_taiski



Series: PJO one-shot collection [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Dark Percy, Depression, Immortal Percy Jackson, M/M, Mortality, Remembering Past Life, Rough Sex, Smut, Sort Of, Violence, War, explicit sex scene, it's sad, olympus, tbh its kind of just porn but sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Perseus is six hundred and fifty four when he watches Thalia’s burial shroud dissolve into white smoke that spirals towards the stars.-------After trying to forget his mortal life for centuries, Percy tries coming to terms with his immortality and faces what took everything away from him: war itself.
Relationships: Ares/Percy Jackson
Series: PJO one-shot collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876507
Comments: 4
Kudos: 83





	Gunpowder

Perseus is six hundred and fifty four when he watches Thalia’s burial shroud dissolve into white smoke that spirals towards the stars. She’s died on the hunt. She was the one person Percy thought would still be there when everyone else went.

He doesn’t let himself shed a tear—he feels hollow, angry. At himself mostly, for choosing immortality over his friends but also at the gods. The bitterness in him has not yet died down. There is a resentment in him that is common among young gods who have realised the novelty has worn off.

Percy stares at the remains of the campfire before him. The hunters can’t see him—he is a god, he chooses when he wants to be noticed. But the Lady Artemis’ silver eyes seek him out. He refuses to acknowledge her until she sends her hunters away and is suddenly standing in front of him.

“Percy Jackson.”

The second name sounds strange to him. He hasn’t heard it in centuries: he’s Perseus now, Perseus, God of the Waves. The name brings back long-repressed bittersweet memories of warm smiles, the smell of blue cookies and pain. And Artemis’ silver eyes haunt him. He stares resolutely in front of him, refusing to meet them. They look too familiar.

Apparently, she’s thinking along the same lines because she frowns. “She could have lived forever.” They both know she isn’t talking about Thalia.

Perseus scowls, trying to stifle his growing rage. He was the one who begged her to stay with him, then abandoned her just two years later. And then was plagued with watching her live, find love and eventually die.

He turns away from Artemis and feels her presence retreating without another word. He wonders if she was doing it on purpose: the longer he looked at the goddess, the more she looked like _her._ The Lady Artemis’ straight auburn hair seemed to lighten and curl in the dim light of the Thalia’s funeral pyre and her silver eyes looked stormy grey and had the exact same determined glare to them that Percy knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

All of her expressions would. They came back with a vengeance, flying through his mind and reminding him what he’d left behind. They’d been through so much together and he’d turned his back on her. And the face he saw on her when he looked Zeus dead in the eye and said _yes…_ the horrified look of betrayal in those grey eyes that shuttered immediately and then he’d never seen trust in them again.

He thought it was the right decision. He could protect them all this way. He was a god, he could make sure monsters never touched them again. But there was something about the idea of stepping away from his anchor to his mortal world that put a veil between them. Now, Perseus was no better than the other gods. He paid little attention to the mortal world revolving underneath him and their little lives dropping like insects and even less attention to his demigod children. They all died in the end, why would it matter when? To Percy, 17 years and 70 years are one and the same.

He doesn’t know how it happens but he finds himself standing in front of Ares’ temple on Olympus. Some days it burns with red fire and screams of the damned or the battery of artillery and sometimes it even looks glorious with heroes engraved on the walls in gold. He saw himself in there once, as a twelve year old battling the God of War. The image gave him a strange sense of disconnect from the mortal he used to be.

It is dark and imposing today, the inside hollow and empty. Much like what the titan war from so long ago made him feel. It was worthless, everything was worthless in the end and it was war that caused him so much pain. Hell, it was war that took everything away from him.

“Ares,” he speaks rashly, the words pouring from his mouth. “I’ve come for a rematch. I nearly bested you when I was twelve, now I have centuries of experience.”

There is a dark chuckle that sends thrills through Percy’s body and he hears the doors of the temple slam shut. Percy whirls around, looking for the god. He’s expecting a massive biker dude with leathers, sunglasses and a knife but he almost freezes in shock when he takes in Ares’ current form.

It’s a kid. He can’t have been older than 14 and he’s wearing the Camp Half-Blood T-Shirt and some shorts, a bloody gaping wound on his side. He looks young and frail but defiant all the same. And his eyes still blaze with cruel fire that dances across his features.

Percy hasn’t recovered from his shock before Ares shifts form again and again. A young, frightened boy in a US army uniform holding a gun limply. A wounded man in a Japanese uniform shooting something in the distance. A starving child on the ground. An old man with a bitter glare and a thousand haunting memories. A woman with anger and desperation written all over her face. A prisoner. A traitor, a terrorist and a freedom fighter. But the one thing they have in common is Ares’ hollow eyes burning with cruel fire.

Percy doesn’t know how long he stands there staring entranced at the horrors of war appearing before him: it could have been a second, or a hundred years. They just keep coming and Percy feels sick to his stomach.

“Stop.” He can’t take it anymore. “You can’t confuse me with your visions.”

Ares just shrugs, the cruel chuckle clawing from his throat again as he shifts into the form of a young adult, dark haired and wild and slightly taller than Percy. He’s dressed casually but his sword swings freely from his fingers. “Can’t handle the reality, Jackson?”

There it is, again. The surname that used to define who he was. _His mother’s name._ Percy just scowls and flicks his own wrist, Anaklusmos appearing in his fist. He’d once given the sword to his first born demigod son but when he died at the age of 15, on a quest, Percy realised it didn’t hurt. There was pity, yes, but there was also a slight twinge of disgust. The boy was weak. And again, what was a mortal lifespan compared to the eternity of a god? He had plenty of other children and Percy came to the realisation that he doesn’t care.

He tries putting aside the image of Ares in the form of a dying demigod child and instead focuses on the Ares in front of him—young, deadly, with a cruel smirk playing across his features. It’s dangerous and Percy feels a thrill rushing through his blood when he leaps at Ares.

He hasn’t felt this alive in centuries as he slashes and hacks at Ares, who easily holds his ground. But as their fight continues and Ares still looks like he’s playing with him, Percy starts to feel anger. All of the rage and resentment he’s been bottling up for years comes out as his fighting becomes harder and faster, and more reckless. He fights like a demon, his sword spiralling through his hands like a ship on a storm. Around them, the temple begins to crack from the force of their blows. And still, Ares is almost leisurely despite the intensity of Percy’s swings.

He almost screams in frustration when he strikes carelessly and Ares parries, twisting his blade so Percy’s trapped against corner with Ares’ sword mercilessly caging him in. Still, the god of war looks smug and there’s not a drop of sweat on his face.

Percy’s heart is thudding furiously, cheeks red and body sweaty from exertion. He’s mad. He doesn’t know why he’s being so careless or how Ares bested him like it was easy, despite Percy’s ability to hold his own when he was twelve.

“Last time, your fight was legitimate,” Ares says, almost as if he’s reading Percy’s mind. He probably is. A dark laugh creeps along his voice and it makes Percy shiver. “You had a reason. You had something to be fighting for. Can you remember it, Jackson?”

Percy snarls. The God of War is taunting him and he knows it. He doesn’t want to remember what he was fighting for, he came here to forget it.

“But this time?” Ares continues, his voice silky smooth but rough all the same. “You’re fighting the god of war for the sake of forgetting. That was a stupid thing to do, Perseus. And even I’ll admit, you are strong—but your decision was unwise, especially concerning war. Remember Percy Jackson, even strength has to bow to wisdom sometimes.”

And it’s Ares casually quoting her words back to him and mocking his pain that does it for Percy. He disarms Ares with a violent wrench of his wrist and screams, centuries worth of bottled up pain pouring from his mouth, leaving his throat wrecked. Ares looks stunned for a second—in the young form he’s in, the vulnerability and surprise that grace his features throws Percy. He has no sword anymore and he’s finally at Percy’s mercy, his red lips falling open in an expression of shock and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows in fear.

The moment hangs between them like a drop of clear water and Percy sees everything between them. For a fleeting moment, Percy wants to kiss him and in the next wild, brief moment Percy thinks he’s won against the god of war. But before he can twist his features into savage triumph, Ares pulls a long knife from where it’s strapped around his thigh and sends Riptide flying across the temple.

And before Percy can react, Ares stabs him, quickly and cleanly and without ceremony.

He stares at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his chest and is suddenly flashed back to his twelve year old body—and the old mortal fear of death hits him like a tsunami. He’s slapped in the face by how raw it is and how young it makes him feel. The pain hasn’t caught up yet and neither has his mind—Percy can’t register the weapon protruding from his chest and feels a strange sense of disconnect.

Then Ares leans in close and laughs in his ear again, the sound dark and chaotic. It bounces around the temple and crawls its way up Percy’s spine. He closes his eyes and falls back against the sound, the mortal feeling of helplessness consuming him once more. He wants nothing but to melt into Ares’ voice and feel eternal oblivion.

But then there is a shuddering pain from his chest as Ares wrenches the dagger out of his body, twisting as he goes, and with it Percy’s reality comes flooding back in.

“You can’t win little god,” Ares laughs roughly. “When you were mortal, you had a purpose. You had something to fight for. Something to save. What have you got now but a needless thirst for blood?”

His raw voice spurs Percy to action and his words fill him with rage again, even though he knows that Ares is goading him on. This is what he wants.

Percy ignores the golden ichor spilling from the hole over his heart and his wound stitches itself back up in seconds. There is something dirty about the colour of his blood that fascinates him—despite being immortal for over six centuries, he still expects to bleed red just like Thalia did when she finally met her match. He pushes the thoughts from his mind, summoning Anaklusmos to his hands as he does so. He’s a god now, he can carry on forever if he wants to.

Then, he lunges for Ares again, seeing his own expression of cruelty reflected in his eyes. Their battle lasts longer the second time, as Percy goes in for a lethal attack knowing he has nothing to lose, but again, Ares sends Riptide skittering across the ground and drives his weapon home in Percy’s heart.

And again, Percy struggles to his feet. He doesn’t know how long their vicious cycle lasts—it could have been decades. Percy doesn’t care. But every time he finds Ares’ sword through his chest and his lips at his ear, Percy feels part of him crumble. He’s losing his resolve. His reasons for fighting have all but faded from his mind and the only thing keeping him going is blind determination and a wild, very mortal survival instinct.

Yet Ares only seems to be getting fiercer and stronger. He doesn’t falter once but his control seems to be slipping. What were once carefully measured strokes, designed to keep Percy on his toes, are now sweeping slashes capable of felling Percy in one intense movement. His breathing is harsh against Percy’s ear and his teeth are bared in an animalistic smirk.

He turns to laugh into Percy’s ear again as he presses him against the wall behind the alter with his body, their blades trapped between them. Even as Percy struggles, Ares sounds low, rough and easy as always and his breath tickles the nape of Percy’s neck. He almost sobs in frustration when Ares pulls both of their weapons away and discards them on the floor behind them. What’s Ares going to do, switch it up and rip his heart from his chest with his bare hands instead of running him through with a blade? Percy finds he doesn’t care. He’s done.

But he’s definitely not expecting Ares to run a surprisingly gentle thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone, knowing he’s given up. Percy jerks his head up in surprise to stare at the god of war. He’s still in the same form as he was when they started their fight: tall, slim, young, but older than Percy and with thousands of years of pain burning red in his eyes. There are one hundred pale scars scattered over his face and hands and probably the rest of his body, all small and inconsequential and blending into each other like a collage. There’s probably a story behind every single one but every single story probably means nothing in the lifetime of a god. Briefly, Percy wonders if he has a scar on the back of his heel, courtesy of a young Perseus Jackson.

In a way, the form Ares has taken is not unlike Percy himself. He reminds him of all the people he’s ever cared about, whether it be in the way Ares’ long fingers are still cupping his face or the way he stares at Percy with an intensity that takes his breath away. It makes Percy feel a yearning so strong it almost hurts.

His eyes drift closed subconsciously when Ares fixes his flaming, hollow eyes into his own and leans impossibly closer. Now his lips are so close that Percy can feel them fluttering against his own, the ghost of a kiss just millimetres away. Ares’ firm, hard body is pinning the length of his own to the wall, reminding Percy that he is completely at the older god’s mercy. He can’t say he’s adverse to the idea—in fact, his body arches closer and a soft whine escapes his lips when Ares reaches up to pin his wrists to the wall behind him.

The rough brick is as cold and grounding as Ares’ body is burning hot and steadily making Percy lose any rational thought still in his mind. When Ares finally captures his mouth in a hot, bruising kiss, Percy melts completely. He doesn’t even try to compete with Ares, who’s ravaging his mouth brutally, and just lets himself be used. Something the he hasn’t felt in centuries has re-ignited in his chest, in the same place Ares previously stabbed him again and again.

He feels mortal. Perseus Jackson feels the most mortal he has since the day Zeus replaced the life in his red blood with the golden ichor that stained Ares’ blade.

And maybe it’s because apart from love, there is nothing more mortal than war, than the senseless dying _en mass_ for reasons that matter little. There is nothing more mortal than the look on a helpless soldier’s eye as they fight and fall for love, their kingdoms or their long forgotten glory or the blind desperation one feels in the face of death. But there is something incredibly animalistic about it too, and Percy feels it. There’s a rawness in the way Ares moves against him and he’s is reminded that despite everything, despite all the insurmountable horrors, there is a vicious beauty in war.

He sees it in the way Ares’ gaze holds the rebelliousness of youth and the way his jaw curves and buries itself into Percy’s neck and bites, leaving blooming red marks in its wake. Percy can’t help it. He moans and falls backwards, his legs giving out from underneath him.

Ares just spins him around and slams him against the alter, not taking his mouth away from Percy’s. It burns. Percy revels in the way Ares’ tongue sweeps through his mouth, each sensation leaving fire in its wake and leaving Percy half-dizzy, half alive and all but begging for more. He’s not in any state to say anything though, so he opts to finally use his body and spreads his legs, grinding against the god, and tugging harshly at his hair.

This earns him something between a guttural groan and a growl from the god, who somehow manages to increase the passion in their open-mouthed kiss. It’s hot, fast and desperate and Percy knows damn well that he’s screwed, but there’s no going back now.

Ares rips Percy’s shirt off and makes quick work of shoving his hand down Percy’s pants, making him gasp sharply and break away from the kiss, lost in a spear of pleasure that shoots downwards, hard. It’s so intense it hurts.

But Ares carries on, touching Percy in every way, broad, calloused hands running along his sides, pressing on his nipples and finally dipping below the waistband again. Every place he touches leaves a trail of smouldering heat behind it and Percy’s surprised he hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet, or at least disintegrated and burned away.

Before he knows it, Ares has thrown his pants to the ground as well and Percy’s lying on the cold alter, the stone edge digging into his body as Ares continues to assault his mouth with his tongue. Percy’s a moaning mess, clawing at the god’s back and desperately thrusting onto him as he looks for some sort of friction. But Ares only laughs again, the low, rough and definitely predatory noise going straight to Percy’s cock. He nearly comes then and there, his eyes rolling to the back of his head and his lithe back arching off the alter.

Ares pulls him to the edge of the alter and flips him over, pressing Percy’s stomach against the cold stone in a way that's borderline painful and should not have been at all arousing. Percy’s so wound up already, even with so little actual action, that Ares shoving two of his fingers straight up his arse, without warning, makes him see stars. The god of war groans in appreciation, his voice heavy with lust, at the sight of Percy screaming, sobbing and writhing beneath him, come painting the dark stone white.

But even as a haze of pain fills Percy’s mind, he can’t bring it in himself to tell the god of war to stop as he continues thrusting his fingers in and out of Percy’s hole. He must have made some sort of godly lube appear because his fingers enter him with relative ease, but Percy’s just come and everything is too sensitive. But apparently the god of war knows no mercy because he laughs again at the pain edged with desperate arousal that Percy is feeling.

Percy chokes on a sob when Ares adds a third finger and twists them, pressing against his prostate with skilled fluidity. He wasn’t expecting Ares to actually try prepare him, he thought he’d be fucked roughly against the alter then left to gather himself up after the humiliation. Of course, that’s probably coming later, but right now Percy is falling apart under the god of war’s fingers.

He’s honestly not sure what’s crueller. Sure, this is more fun than a quick fuck, but the teasing is slowly killing him. Ares is still playing with him even though Percy desperately needs to come again. He grinds against the table, all dignity long forgotten. Ares just pins his hips down and rolls his own hips against Percy’s ass crack, letting him feel his size and hardness.

Percy is definitely crying now and he slams his hands flat on the alter, arching off of it with a desperate string of curses leaving his mouth. He needs it, and he needs it _now._ “Oh _fuck,_ Ares, please, please, I need to—”

He’s cut off when Ares lifts his hips and slams into him, his scream of surprise dissolving into a moan when Ares forces his fingers into his mouth to shut him up. Percy comes untouched a second time as he gags around Ares’ fingers while he’s pounded from behind. He can’t think anymore, only feel the sharp spikes of pain that burn from his arsehole and make his whole body feel like it’s on fire. The god of war is big. He supposes it makes sense.

And Percy feels like a rag doll, head lolling uselessly against the alter as he feels Ares roughly thrusting into him and a third orgasm creeping up on him. He doesn’t have enough coherent thought to beg him to go faster—he can only scrabble at the stone beneath him and moan and gasp while he desperately tries to get enough air and not pass out.

Thankfully, Ares seems to understand and drives him even harder against the alter, chasing his own orgasm with abandon. Percy is fully aware he’s little more than a way of getting off at this point and for some reason, it’s making him even more aroused.

He feels Ares’ brutal pace stuttering for the first time and manages to think _gods, no, not yet—_ if Ares finishes and leaves now, Percy’s going to be left painfully aroused but without the coordination to get himself off. The frustration hits him again and he almost screams again but chokes on a moan instead when Ares spills inside of him, his come burning hot in Percy’s ass.

Ares pulls out and with desperation, Percy turns around and pounces on the god of war. He’s not going anywhere, not until Percy finishes for a third time at least.

He looks surprised as Percy shoves him onto the alter but that expression quickly shifts to a savage smirk, then dissolves into pure desire as Percy climbs onto his lap and slams himself straight back down on his somehow still-hard dick. Ares throws his hands backwards to support himself as Percy pants harshly in his ear and rides him hard and fast. He’s steadily approaching another earth-shattering orgasm and he knows it.

Ares looks beautiful, pale throat bared to Percy, lips red from kissing and smouldering eyes dark with desire. Even underneath Percy, he looks dangerous. Every thrust Percy makes downwards, Ares meets with a snapping roll of his hips that never fails to make Percy gasp sharply. But he doesn’t break eye contact once, his eyes trained firmly on Ares’ hollow sockets that somehow burn with more intensity with every second that passes. They make Percy irrationally angry.

He finishes with a keen and a sob when Ares finally wraps his hand around Percy’s cock and roughly jerks it off, then he’s left holding on for dear life while Ares bounces him up and down on his lap and careens towards his second orgasm. Ares’ burning eyes are veiled for a second when he closes his eyes, shuddering from the force of his orgasm, but Percy can’t get rid of the hatred burning in him and he can’t stop crying tears of anger.

But when Ares gently pries him off his dick, Percy just sobs and clings to the god of war like his life depends on it. Fuck, he hates Ares with everything he has—war took everything from him. It took his whole life.

He looks up to meet those eyes again, seething with rage, but there is something there that Percy would never have expected to see. Pity.

Because in the end, there is pity in war—and Percy realises he doesn’t hate Ares, he hates himself and he hates the life he was given.

The tears come hard and fast as Percy remembers the mortal life that was snatched away from him in the end, but so tragic to begin with. It was a hero’s life, laced with pain and shaped by war. And he’d let go of it.

Ares is surprisingly tender as Percy clings to his side and shakes with heaving, broken sobs. He savours being enveloped by strong arms and the smell of gunpowder and the musk of sweat and being cradled until his sobs subside and he drifts out of consciousness.

When he wakes up, Ares is gone. Of course he is. War is a lot of things, but it is never forgiving and is only tender in a fleeting moment. Whatever foolish thoughts Percy felt before are hollow in the morning light—Ares is the god of war, after all. War never loves; not even the touch of Aphrodite herself can placate it for long.

Percy feels hollow, even though he’s in a soft bed by the alter and there’s sunlight streaming through the windows. The gesture is empty. Percy knows that when he walks out, the temple will revert to its previous barren state, cruel and hard and unforgiving and he knows that Ares will never pay him the slightest attention again. He’s had his pity.

Percy wants to stay forever, shielded from reality for the next millennia, but he knows he can’t. He leaves the temple with a gaping hole in his chest, the pain from his mortal life a fresh wound, like scab scratched open. It bleeds.

He can’t escape it after all, however hard he’s been trying.

Even walking through Olympus, every building reminds him of her. She designed Olympus after all—and in some cruel mockery, he can see her in every single one. He sees her boldness in every sharp stroke on a façade and her rare gentleness in the curve of every ornate trimming that graces every strong design. He left that—he left her behind.

It brings another wave of regret and hollowness up to his throat. He doesn’t even try to hide the bubble of bitter laughter that spills out when he notices deep indigo, iridescent flowers on somebody’s porch. It’s a regal colour, fitting for the finder of Pan and the Lord of the Wild. He wants to burn them. Hell, he wants to burn the whole city down.

He doesn’t bother stop the tears that stream from his eyes when the faint scent of freshly baked cookies darts past him, carrying with it memories of soft eyes and a kind smile that tugs at the shrivelled up thing in his chest that Percy can barely even call a heart anymore.

But he’s past the point of hysteria. Percy makes it to the end of Olympus in a haze and sits on the edge, looking down at the city sprawled below him. He can’t remember where Olympus has moved to at this point and it doesn’t matter anyway. It looks unfamiliar and cold, just like the mortal world has for centuries.

Percy feels very young and like he’s spiralling out of control as he looks down at the mortal world so far below him, so far out of reach.

And he has to remind himself that even if he jumped into free-fall and even if Zeus blasted him out of the air and even if he closed his eyes and never opened them again, he’d still be immortal. He’d still be stuck in the cruel existence he’d chosen for himself. And he could never get away from the friends that he’d left behind but that still remained ingrained in his soul—the very same ones whose names he’s too cowardly to say.

Perseus Jackson lies down on the edge of Olympus and stays there. He feels nothing anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno I felt like exploring how Percy would have turned out if he was immortal and tbh its dark Percy all around. Imo there’s no way he would have survived being a god. The Ares ship kind of came off the fact that Percy’s whole mortal life was shaped by war so there’s gotta be some resentment there? Sorry it was kinda depressing but we move :)


End file.
